


Navigating by Touch

by hanap



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Consent, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, First Kiss, It's all about the YEARNING, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touching, the inherent intimacy of casual touch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27686717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap
Summary: Slow, so slow, but Aziraphale is nothing but patient when it comes to Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 74
Kudos: 253
Collections: Good Omens (Complete works), Wahoo Winter Gift Exchange





	Navigating by Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I wrote this fic for [Lesli](https://twitter.com/whichzwitch), who gifted me a truly spectacular [artwork](https://twitter.com/whichzwitch/status/1330658904284520449) for the Wahoo Winter Gift Exchange over on Twitter. (I know I'm bending fic exchange rules lmao oh well.) I hope you like this!!

There are very few things that have changed since the Apocalypse that wasn't.

For one thing, Crowley starts coming by the bookshop unannounced, usually to pick Aziraphale up for lunch or dinner.[1] Sometimes, it’s simply to sprawl on the worn old couch with its matching blankets to stare at his phone for hours.[2] It’s certainly a welcome change – nothing makes Aziraphale happier than simply knowing that Crowley is in the bookshop somewhere, probably sunning himself in an armchair like the old serpent that he is.

But there is something else Aziraphale wishes would change.

He tries his best. It’s very slow going at first. For a long while, even just their knuckles brushing together as they walk in the park would have Crowley shying away at once. But eventually, he grows accustomed to being touched, and allows their fingertips to meet when refilling each other’s wineglasses. He bestows upon Aziraphale the favour of taking his arm, even lets Aziraphale lace their fingers together for the brief moment before they say goodbye in the Bentley when Crowley drops him off.

Their progress isn’t a straight line, Aziraphale finds. On one occasion, he tries to reach for Crowley’s hand while he’s distracted, and the startled, defensive flinch that results is enough to keep Aziraphale from trying again for a few days. Crowley spooks easily – he doesn’t take well to gratitude or apologies, and Aziraphale knows it will take a long time to undo the eons of belief that demons aren’t meant to be touched, or spoken to with kindness, or to be shown affection in any sort of way.

Slow, so slow, but Aziraphale is nothing but patient when it comes to Crowley. A few more weeks before Crowley consents to hold his hand when they’re dining at the Ritz. Several more before Crowley lets Aziraphale drape his own camel hair coat around his thin shoulders when he complains about the weather growing colder. Once, he even allows Aziraphale to wind a scarf about his neck before they head out for the day.[3]

But to his surprise, one day, it’s Crowley who reaches for his hand when they walk side by side. It’s Crowley who gently touches his shoulder to get his attention when he’s distracted. It’s Crowley who tucks his fingers into the crook of Aziraphale’s arm when they enter the theatre. It’s Crowley who guides Aziraphale into his seat in a restaurant, his palm warm against the small of Aziraphale’s back.

This is when Aziraphale realises that it was never about Crowley being too skittish to be touched. He sees it in the way Crowley looks at him, eyes wide and nervous when skin meets skin. He touches Aziraphale like he’s testing the waters, trying to find loopholes, mapping out the demarcations between what is permissible and forbidden.

Now Aziraphale understands. Crowley is asking how far he can go.

So Aziraphale shows him. He keeps his arm around Crowley’s waist as they walk. He rests a hand on Crowley’s knee as they discuss philosophy and art over a six-course meal. When they watch a performance of _Turandot,_ he presses their shoulders together as they sit comfortably in their own box, allowing his voice to drift low into Crowley’s ear.

It’s not long before Crowley is shifting closer to Aziraphale when they sit together on the bookshop couch after a few bottles of wine. They watch _Hamlet_ together on opening night _,_ and Crowley rests his arm on the back of Aziraphale’s chair the entire time. At one point, Crowley bends to whisper a rude comment in Aziraphale’s ear, and Aziraphale nearly bursts into laughter right there in the silence of the theatre – he turns his head and finds that their faces are only a few inches apart, and that Crowley’s gaze has dropped to his lips, before he clears his throat and turns his attention back to the play.

That night, when Crowley drops Aziraphale off at the bookshop, he walks Aziraphale up to the entrance, and lingers for a long moment on the porch even after Aziraphale has already patted his pockets down for his keys and fumbled his way through unlocking the door.[4] He stands there even after Aziraphale has said good night, and Aziraphale realises that once more, Crowley is asking for permission.

Aziraphale takes a step closer. Then another, until he can feel the warmth of Crowley’s breath ghosting against his face. _Crowley,_ he whispers, _would you –_ he tilts his chin up until there’s barely any space between them, and neither of them moves. They stand there, caught in an interminable moment, the width of two inches and the length of six thousand years, before Crowley at last leans forward and presses their lips together, gentle as the first rain, light as the snow that falls on their faces.

 _Won’t you come inside?_ Aziraphale asks, and Crowley does.

And later, when Crowley gets up from where he’s fallen asleep on the couch, he drapes himself over Aziraphale as he sits in the backroom with a cup of hot cocoa, Crowley’s cheek pressed against Aziraphale’s curls. His arms come up and wrap around Aziraphale’s shoulders, enveloping him in warmth.

 _Look at us, angel,_ Crowley says softly, and Aziraphale looks up and sees their reflection in the glass of the window – Crowley swathed in a fluffy red afghan, his chin resting on top of Aziraphale’s head. Aziraphale smiles and reaches up to grasp the slim wrist affectionately. He sees Crowley smile at him in the glass, and his grip tightens on Crowley’s arm – how far they’ve come, Aziraphale thinks.

 _I_ _love you,_ he says to the reflection, and Crowley laughs and presses a kiss on his cheek with a loud smack. _I know, angel,_ he says. _I know._

\--

[1] Prolonged affairs that inevitably bleed well into the early evening or the wee hours of the day, depending on the meal, and generally accompanied with dessert and extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

[2] Crowley had brought the blankets back from one of his assignments abroad several decades ago – Aziraphale simply expects them to stay in pristine condition, and so they are.

[3] Aziraphale has kept a red scarf on hand for this momentous occasion, because he knows Crowley would rather have been caught dead than in tartan.

[4] This is an argument that spans time immemorial – why doesn’t Aziraphale simply miracle the door open? Crowley will never understand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much as always to NaroMoreau for doing a last minute beta for me, and for constantly yelling encouragement!! 
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) or [Tumblr](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)!


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